“ANOTHER little glass of mate, comisario?”

The police commissioner of the camp sat opposite don Carlos Rojas in the latter’s living room. A half-breed girl, standing very straight, was looking at the two men with her slanting eyes, waiting for the master’s orders.

In front of them on the table were two little calabash shells full of a decoction made from the mate herb, and they were sipping the liquid through the silver “straw” that is known in these regions as a bombilla. No sooner did the servant hear the gurgling of the liquid in the straws, which indicated that the contents of the cup was getting low, than she ran to the stove and brought the “peacock” or pava as the kettle is called, from the curved neck of which she poured boiling water on the soaking leaves at the bottom of the calabashes, and filled these unique goblets to the brim.

Rojas and his guest, as they talked, took frequent sips of their tea. It was evident from the rancher’s expression that something had gone wrong with him. As a matter of fact he had lost another steer, and he angrily attributed this loss to Manos Duras who, of late, had sold altogether too many pieces of beef to the camp at the Dam. As Rojas himself was its official victualler, the loss of his trade, in addition to the disappearance of his steers, seemed to him an insufferable outrage.

He had sent in hot haste for the commissioner, and together, after don Rojas had told his suspicions, they had counted his herd. It was certain that one was lacking. And, as he talked with don Roque, the rancher worked himself up to the point where he came out flatly with the statement that there was no justice to be had in Rio Negro.

“But,” protested the comisario in a tone of discouragement, “I sent that fellow up to the capital of the territory three separate times, under guard, in fact he went as a prisoner, and each time he got off scot-free. No proofs! What could we do? No one will testify against him!”

But Rojas continued his protests, and the commissioner to quiet his growing irritation, promised to make a more determined effort than ever this time to bring the thief to justice.

However, he had at his disposal very few means of carrying out his promise. The police forces at the settlement consisted of four lazy rascals, whose uniforms had grown old and spotted in the service, and whose only weapons were cavalry swords. When they had to pursue a criminal, the well-to-do inhabitants lent the police their rifles; and their horses, of course, were gaunt nags, too ill-nourished to be a menace to anyone intent on escaping.

“That’s what comes of being a federal republic,” lamented don Roque. “The states at least have their own police system. We in the territories who have to depend on the Federal Government for our protection, are so far away from Buenos Aires that they forget all about us. There’s nothing for us to do but trust to our wits for our safety.”

“Yes, here we are, deserted you might say,” continued don Roque, “turning into savings! After all, this is nothing but Patagonia, and it is only a few years ago that anything like civilization began here at all. Meanwhile the rest of the Argentine has forged ahead at a breathless pace in less than half a century.... Pucha! It’s worth seeing just the same!”

And for the moment they forgot their immediate worries, while they talked of that part of their country which had progressed with such dizzying rapidity within their lifetimes. But don Roque had a jealous enthusiasm for Patagonia also.

“Desert though it is at this moment, you’ll see it bloom yet, and in a short time from now, too, when this soil begins to get water. And it’s lucky for us that this land has such an ugly face.... If it hadn’t it would have been stolen from us long ago!”

Wound up by his own words he went on to tell how he had read in a magazine about that gringo Charles Darwin, the same who had discovered how we had all come from monkeys. He, too, it seemed, had wandered around these parts, when, as a youth, he had landed at Bahia Blanca, arriving there in a British frigate in which he was making a tour of the world. He had taken it into his head to study the plants and animals of the region, not an arduous task because there were so few specimens of either. Finally, in despair, he gave up his search for new flora and went away, leaving to this arid plateau the name “Land of Desolation.”

“That was doing us a favor, if the gringo but knew it! Just as soon as people learn what this country is like when it’s irrigated, the English are sure to take it from us! Didn’t they take our Islas Malvinas, that they now call Fauckland Islands?”

Rojas too began to talk of past times, lamenting the fact that his forebears had not been able to see where the true riches of the country lay. It had been their misfortune to become well-to-do before the generation of great and rapid fortune-making in the Argentine.

It was in 1870 that the government at Buenos Aires, growing weary of having the Indians, still in a state of savagery, at its very gates, completed the work of the Conquistadores, by sending a military expedition out to the desert to take possession of twenty thousand leagues of land, practically all that was capable of cultivation.

“The government sold that land for 1500 pesos. The league and the peso in those days was worth only a few centavos. More than that, it allowed several years’ time for payment, and even printed the names of purchasers in the official newspaper, declaring them ‘well-deserving of the country’. The soldiers who had taken part in the expedition also received land as a reward for their services. It wasn’t long before they sold the titles to their acres to the store-keepers in exchange for gin, and canned food. And these are the lands that now supply wheat and beef to half the world! On them have arisen numberless villages and towns. Today a league of land, which once cost a few cents, is worth millions. The owners of all this property have no other merit than that they kept their land, without cultivating it, and with no wish to sell it, waiting for the European immigration which would give it its value. My grandfather was already rich in those days and owned a big ranch. He didn’t want to buy any of the new property. If he had only known!”

Rojas at the moment was quite forgetful of how he had squandered the better part of his inheritance; the thought of the enormous fortune his family might have amassed had it been willing to take advantage of an opportunity provided by the rapid expansion of the country, and seized by so many others, fascinated and tormented him.

But at this point the conversation of the two Argentinians was interrupted by Celinda’s arrival. Dutifully wearing her riding skirt, she came in to give her father a kiss, and greet the comisario. Taking advantage of the moment during which don Carlos left them to get a box of cigars, don Roque said teasingly to the girl,

“Haven’t I seen you wear a different riding suit when you were out on the mesa!”

Celinda smiled, at the same time indicating by a graceful little threatening gesture, that he must be more discreet.

“Be careful,” she said. “Don’t let my old man hear you.”

While the two men lit their cigars and went on with their talk about Manos Duras, and how he was to be punished for his lawlessness, Celinda knowing the conversation was likely to be a long one, left the ranch, demurely riding her horse with a side-saddle.

A half hour later, however, she was cantering along the river bank; wearing boy’s clothes and mounted on a different horse. Suddenly she caught sight of a group of riders approaching, and stopped to reconnoitre.

Canterac, inspired by his desire to arouse the marquesa’s interest in him, had invited her to ride on the river path. It would, he believed, give her a heightened estimate of him when she saw the work that was being carried out under his direction. She would realize then that he was the real manager of the enterprise, when she saw hundreds of men obeying his orders....

Elena and the Frenchman were in the lead. Behind them rode Pirovani, who hadn’t a very steady seat, and lurched about rather grotesquely on his saddle, making determined efforts nevertheless to get his horse between Elena’s and the Frenchman’s. Last of the cavalcade came the marquÉs, Watson and Moreno.

As Elena and Canterac rode past Celinda the two women looked at one another. The marquesa smiled, as though eager to speak to the young girl; but with a childish frown, Celinda turned severe eyes on her.

“She’s nothing but a girl,” said Canterac, “a mischievous little thing, full of pranks—and, although she looks like a boy, I shouldn’t wonder if she had it in her to turn any man’s head. The people hereabouts call her Flor de Rio Negro.”

Elena, offended by the girl’s attitude, looked haughtily at her.

“Flor, perhaps,” she commented, “but a little too wild!”

And followed by her escort she rode on.

This brief conversation had been carried on in French, so that Celinda caught but a few words of it; but it was easy to guess that the marquesa had said something disparaging, and Celinda did not restrain her impulse to make a grimace at the intruder’s unconscious back.

The other riders then drew near, and the marquÉs ceremoniously greeted the young girl. Moreno, however, did not even see her, so intent was he in watching the group ahead. As for Richard Watson, he indicated by his manner that he intended riding on with the other members of the party; and he pretended not to understand Celinda’s perfectly obvious gestures.

She let him go on, though she wore an expression of childish annoyance. Suddenly, however, she repented of her meekness, and pulling on the reins, wheeled her horse around and followed the group.

As she rode, her right hand suddenly caught up the lassoo tied to the front of the saddle and threw it at the American ... a tug at the rope ... and Watson, to escape rolling out of the saddle, had to stop and turn his horse back; his companions meanwhile, rode on, unaware of his capture.

The thong still tight about his shoulders, Richard rode up to the girl; he was too much annoyed to free himself and ride away; better have it out!

“Come here,” she said smiling, as she drew in the rope. “Tell me what you mean by going around with that woman—without my permission!”

In a voice betraying his annoyance, Watson replied sharply,

“You have no rights over me, seÑorita Rojas! I shall go about with anyone I like!”

Celinda grew pale. She had not expected that tone. But very quickly she recovered herself, and imitating the young man’s serious manner, she replied,

“Mr. Watson, I have over you this right at least. I do care about what happens to you, and I don’t like to see you in bad company!”

Conquered by the girl’s comic seriousness, young Watson burst out laughing; and then Celinda laughed too.

“You know how I am, gringuito.... I don’t like to see you with that woman. Anyway she’s too old for you.... Swear to me that you’ll do what I ask—or I won’t let you go!”

Watson swore solemnly, with hand up-raised, making determined efforts to preserve his solemnity. Celinda loosened the rope and the two young people set off in the opposite direction to that taken by Elena and her party.

Since the day when the Frenchman had shown the marquesa the engineering works at the Dam, somewhat boastfully exhibiting his authority over the workmen, Pirovani had felt that he had lost ground; and he was eager at any cost to regain it.

An inspiration came to him one morning as he leaned on his elbow over the railing of his balcony. He knew now how to steal a march on his rival! Within half an hour one of the Italian’s foremen was in conference with his employer.

This fellow, a Chilian, crafty, ingenious in finding a way out of tight places, was frequently called upon by the contractor to handle difficult missions for him. He was known as “the Friar” by his compatriots, an allusion to his sojourn during one period of his adventurous life with the Dominicans at Valparaiso. As a result of this experience he not only knew how to read and write; he had also acquired a taste for unusual words, which he rendered more unusual still by stressing their syllables to his own taste. Soft-voiced and courteous-mannered, he peppered his conversation with poetic phrases. A little incident of two fatal knife thrusts administered to a friend had caused him to abandon his native land.

Foreseeing that his master’s summons would mean a long journey, he had ridden over on his excellent mare. As he dismounted, Pirovani came out, and gave his henchman a vigorous slap on the shoulder by way of indicating the affectionate confidence he felt in him.

“Listen, roto,” said the contractor, adopting the Chilians’ own ironical nickname for themselves, “I want you to get to the station as fast as you can. The train for Buenos Aires will go through in two hours, and you are going to take it.”

In spite of his half-breed impassivity, the Friar could not suppress a gesture of astonishment at hearing that he was being sent to the capital.

“Just as soon as you get there,” Pirovani continued, “give this list to my agent, Fernando—you know him. Tell him he is to buy these things at once, and give you the packages. You are to take the next train back. I expect you to make the round trip in five days.”

The Chilian listened with utmost gravity to these commands. He concluded from his employer’s manner that the mission being entrusted to him must be of tremendous importance and felt agreeably flattered at having been chosen to accomplish it.

Pirovani thrust a fistfull of bills into his hand and bade him good-by, turning his back on him with the brisk satisfaction of a general who has just commanded the manoeuvres sure to bring a quick and decisive victory.

With a frown indicative of profound thought, the Friar went down the steps.

“This must be an order for steel for the works,” he reflected. “Or perhaps he’s sending me for money....”

Seeing that Pirovani had retired into his cottage, he gave up his attempt to think out a reason for his errand, deeming it simpler to open the envelope entrusted to him. Then he stood in the middle of the street reading the papers it contained.

His first glance at the several lines of the document did not enlighten him.

“One dozen bottles of ‘Jardin Florido’.”

“Idem, ‘Nymphs and Undines’.”

“Six dozen boxes of ‘Moonlight Soap’”....

The bewildered foreman went on with the remaining pages of the thick packet. He was beginning to understand; but the more he understood, the greater was his astonishment. Was it for this that he was being sent to Buenos Aires with orders to return at once?...

“Holy smoke!” he muttered, “this can’t all be for one female! There’s enough here for the Grand Turk’s harem!”

But, as the prospect of a trip to Buenos Aires pleased him, even though he would be able to remain there only a few hours, he cheerfully mounted his horse, and galloped off hot-foot to the station.

Of all the marquesa’s nightly callers, the calmest, to judge by appearance, was Moreno. As his work kept him busy only about one day a week, he spent the rest of the time reading in the window of the frame house where he had set up his office. He was a greedy and insatiable reader, devouring two and sometimes three novels daily. His passion for novels of all kinds was one of long standing; it had grown worse in the many hours of solitude he spent at la Presa. When everybody else went away to work in the morning, leaving him alone in his rustic office, he had no distraction of any other kind.

It was after the arrival of the Torre Biancas that his literary preferences, up to that time not clearly formulated, took definite shape. He determined henceforth to read nothing but those tales the scene of which was the so-called world of fashion, with heroes and heroines who were personages of supposedly high society. Moreover, now that he was rubbing elbows with some of the most distinguished representatives of Parisian high-life, he could judge of whether these novels were true descriptions of the subject they attempted to treat, or not.

At times he would stop reading and look up at the ceiling with an ecstatic expression, while a desire whispered in his brain,

“Oh, to be the hero of such a story! Oh, to be loved by a woman of high society!”

One afternoon when Moreno was least expecting him Canterac appeared at his door on horseback. As a rule he was at that time of day always at the dam. Something unusual must have happened ... the captain would not be likely otherwise to come and see him.

The horseman rode up to the window and shook hands with Moreno. With military abruptness, avoiding all preambles, he began,

“I wanted to talk to you a minute before tonight so you can get a letter off in today’s mail.... It’s about a present for the marquesa. Poor woman, in this desert of ours she has none of the things she’s accustomed to, and if you remember, a few weeks ago she happened to mention that she misses perfumes so much....”

The engineer took some papers out of a leather wallet, and gave them to Moreno.

“I clipped these out of some catalogues that the Galician fellow at the store gave me. Of course it took him a while to get them for me from Buenos Aires. I should have had them three days ago, so as to send the order by the other train. But, to come to the point.... You have a lot of friends in Buenos Aires, won’t you get one of them to buy these things for me? And take the money out of my pay for the month....”

Moreno with a nod, took the catalogue clippings.

“I hope Pirovani won’t get ahead of me in this matter,” Canterac went on. “The fellow is more insufferable every day.”

The captain had left him to return to his work at the Dam. Moreno neglected his novel a moment longer to examine the catalogue lists and prices; and as he did so his eyes grew round with amazement; in fact they became almost as round and blank as the shell-rimmed glasses covering them.

For the list marked was a long one; it contained not only perfumery, but all kinds of toilet articles. Evidently the Captain had plunged into the catalogue as though it were a newly discovered continent, appropriating everything he encountered.

“All this mounts up to more than a thousand pesos,” said the paymaster to himself. “And Canterac’s pay is only 800 pesos a month.”

Methodical and prudent as he was, a man of figures and accounts, he felt outraged at this lack of balance between income and expenditure. But after a little reflection he began to smile to himself. After all, this lavishness was easy to understand! The marquesa was so charming ... and she couldn’t be expected to live like an ordinary woman!

But all the rest of the afternoon Moreno was uneasy; he couldn’t keep his attention on the novel he held in his hands. It would waver and slowly sink to the table in front of him, thickly strewn with business papers. Finally, with a frown, he picked up a sheet of writing paper and with the expression of a child fearful of being caught telling a whopper, he began to write—

Here Moreno scratched his head with his pen handle; then, with a remorseful expression, he went on writing until he had covered all four pages of his letter paper.

Every evening now at the marquesa’s tertulias, Pirovani betrayed the indecision and preoccupation of one who has something on his mind of which he must speak, but whose emotions get the better of him before he can begin.

After a week of hesitancy however he decided to postpone his offer no longer; he reached this decision precisely on the evening when Moreno counted on enjoying one of the most triumphant moments of his life.

Elena was wearing one of those evening dresses of hers the effect of which she was constantly varying by the addition or removal of some ornament so that her costumes always appeared new. Canterac and Torre Bianca wore dinner dress, and Pirovani was displaying the majestic cut of his swallow-tail. But, alas! He was no longer the only one to be so arrayed; for, at the last moment, Moreno had arrived wearing the evening clothes sent down by his wife. It was true that his clothes were modest enough, and somewhat the worse for numerous years of service and moth balls. But still they were formal evening dress, and robbed the contractor of the distinction of being the only guest present to be thus attired; as a consequence, Pirovani was so nervous that he chattered like a magpie.

Watson and Robledo had compromised with their surroundings by putting on dark suits; they felt obliged to change their clothes every evening now so as not to strike too glaring a note in the picture of incongruous elegance that was being created out of respect for Elena’s presence.

Watson was tired out by his day’s work; he was preoccupied moreover with thinking of the meeting he had had in the late afternoon with Celinda near her father’s ranch. Finally, after several more or less disguised yawns, he got up to go to his own quarters. Elena could not conceal her annoyance when he returned her look of cordial interest with a coolly courteous bow, as though it were without the slightest regret that he left her charming presence.

As, at that very moment, Canterac was engaged in conversation with the Marques, and as Moreno was discussing something with Robledo, Pirovani seized his opportunity.

“I haven’t dared say anything before, Marquesa, but now I feel that I must.... This frame is unworthy of your beauty and elegance....”

He gave a depreciative glance about at the room and its furnishings.

“If you like, my house is at your disposal from tomorrow on. It is yours, marquesa. I can live in the house of one of my employees.”

Elena, for some reason, did not betray great astonishment. One might have said that she had been expecting this offer for a long time, or even that she had been subtly suggesting it to the contractor. However, she went through various gestures of protest, at the same time smiling at Pirovani, and letting her glance rest caressingly on him.

Finally she weakened before his arguments, and promised to consider the suggestion and consult her husband about it; she could not decide alone....

While Robledo and Watson were at work the next day, she kept her promise.

In spite of the submissiveness with which Torre Bianca usually accepted his wife’s suggestions, he indicated in no uncertain terms that this particular one scandalized him. Certainly he could not accept Pirovani’s generosity!

“What will people think of his giving up his own house to us? Everyone knows that he takes such enjoyment in it!”

No; he shook his head emphatically. Besides, all his class feeling awoke at the thought of being under obligations to a man, for whom he felt no dislike, it is true, but whose tastes he considered rather vulgar.

But Elena became irritable.

“Your friend Robledo is constantly doing us favors, and yet it doesn’t seem to occur to you that people might think that strange! Why do you think it so extraordinary that a new friend should express his interest in us by letting us live in his house?”

And Torre Bianca, who was so accustomed to yield on every occasion to his wife’s wishes, felt himself yielding once more at these words; nevertheless he persisted for awhile longer in voicing his objections to the idea, so that finally, by way of settling the matter, Elena said,

“Of course I understand your scruples ... but it isn’t as though the house were being given to us ... it is simply rented. I insisted on that point to Pirovani. You will pay him when the irrigation project begins to bring us in some money.”

With a gesture of resignation, the marquÉs surrendered. Particularly noticeable at the moment was his air of discouragement; and he looked aged and sick, as though some secret malady were eating away his life.

“Do as you like. I have no desire but to see you happy.”

The following day Elena called on Pirovani. It had been arranged that she was to see the house, and look it over thoroughly before moving.

The contractor, pale with emotion at being alone with her at last, received her at the head of the stairs, and escorted her through the various rooms. Elena, playing her part as mistress of the establishment, at once ordered certain pieces of furniture to be moved about; the Italian, meanwhile, overcome with admiration of her taste, looked significantly at Sebastiana the housekeeper; he wanted her too to share his ecstasy over the titled lady’s exquisite discrimination.

Finally they reached the bedroom that was to be Elena’s henceforth. On the dressing table and chairs, spread out in every available space, were innumerable packages all carefully wrapped in tissue paper, tied with ribbon, and sealed; and about each package hovered an aroma of flowers and spices. Pirovani was opening them eagerly, revealing dozens of flasks of perfumes, and boxes of delicate and extravagant soaps, as well as handsome toilet articles; all the enormous order, in fact, brought from Buenos Aires, and that now with its gilded labels, its gorgeously lined cases, its glittering cut glass, caressed the eye and at the same time flattered the sense with its perfumes suggestive of all the marvellous blossoms of a Persian garden.

Elena passed from surprise to amazement; finally she burst out laughing, uttering exclamations of amusement not untinged with mockery.

“How generous of you! But there’s enough here to start a perfume shop!”

Pirovani, quite white by this time, and growing bolder under the marquesa’s smiles, tried to get possession of her hand. But Elena, with a malicious glance in her dark eyes, checkmated him at once.

“I know that this is a real present,” she said, “and that you are not like those vulgar men who sell their gifts.... You want nothing from me but appreciation, I am sure!”

Then, taking pity on the Italian’s embarrassment—alas! he had, as well he knew, laid himself open to the charge of vulgarity, according to the marquesa’s definition—she extended her right hand graciously toward his lips.

“That is for you,” she said.

But he had not yet learned how to kiss a lady’s hand with the proper mixture of fervor and restraint; and Elena, abruptly putting an end to his homage, shook her finger at him....

They went on then to the other rooms of the house, and the contractor, as though repentant of his audacity, meekly followed his guest about; and yet there were moments when he wished he had been more audacious still; but above his conflicting sentiments persisted a sense of triumph. The marquesa’s white and fragrant hand had actually been offered to his lips, and with what a gesture!

Ah, what good fortune to be able to offer a woman like that a house, and servants, and the luxurious articles so indispensable to her comfort!... With a smile Pirovani contemplated his recent success, and dreamed of other successes to come....